


Mrs. Balitran

by satin_doll



Series: Dark Company [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Companion piece to "Dark", F/M, Molly's view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Sherlock and Molly visit one of Sherlock's "friends" one night, and Molly gets a surprise.





	Mrs. Balitran

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy Cat Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Crazy+Cat+Lady), [sunken_standard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/gifts).



> For Crazy Cat Lady (always), and sunken_standard (because inspiration)

The knock at her door was muted, made by a gloved hand. She knew who it was, of course. No one else would be at her door this time of night unless it was an emergency and that sort of knock would not be soft. 

And she was expecting him.

She glanced at herself in the mirror over the console by the door, then gave a little shrug. Dressing for Sherlock was a usually a joke; he didn’t care what she wore. But tonight he’d given explicit instructions and she’d tried her best to comply. 

An excursion with Sherlock was rare, even these days. One that began at midnight - he wouldn’t tell her where they were going or why, which wasn’t that unusual, but she had heard that whisper of...something...in his voice when he asked her to go with him, and she couldn’t quell the little frisson of anticipation that wafted through her.

There was no greeting from either of them as she opened the door; they were beyond such things. So much of their communication was silent now.

He stood at the open door while she grabbed her coat, but then he took it from her and held it while his gaze swept her from head to foot. He gave a quick nod - of approval? - then held the coat while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

There was a taxi waiting at the kerb. Sherlock gave the driver an address, then slipped in beside her.

“We have to make a quick stop first,” he said, as he settled himself next to her. 

*****

Molly took her cue from Sherlock and sat silently while they rode. 

As the taxi wound its way through the streets, the night outside the window became darker, quieter, as the lights of the busier areas faded behind them. These were parts of the city Molly didn’t visit. She could imagine Sherlock wandering here, could see him silently drifting at night down these walks and alleys, and felt that familiar longing begin to stir - a longing to be wandering beside him, to be a small part of those nighttime journeys and whatever adventures they brought. 

She had no idea what he got up to during those times, when he wasn’t working a case. She knew his aversion to sleep; she had it herself. That feeling of disconnection, of being cut off from the world. No matter how tired she was, sleep was difficult. She fought it. She was pulled by the night, by the quieting of the city, pulled to be awake and aware of what lived in the darkness, whatever it might be. Until Sherlock, she had always assumed that this was somehow wrong, that it marked a kind of perversion in her. Most people embraced sleep eagerly, shunned the night unless it brought bright lights and other people, or activities that wouldn’t bear daylight.

That love of night and darkness colored other avenues of her life, coming out in a somewhat morbid sense of humour, a fascination with the bizarre, even her choice of career. The things that often frightened or appalled others were the very things to which she was drawn, and she had fought against those tendencies her entire life. 

Sherlock had taught her. Sometimes silently, sometimes with words. He let her know that she wasn’t alone, and it had given her attraction to him a new meaning, a depth she craved, almost as if it gave her permission to delve into and enjoy that part of herself she’d sought to banish for so long. 

She reached into her coat pocket and slid her hand along the cool leather sheath of the knife she had found lying beside her bathroom sink two weeks ago. She always carried it with her now, a sort of token. 

The gifting had started a year ago. Some of the gifts had been small, seemingly meaningless: a bunch of feathers fashioned into a tiny wreath; a smooth stone with odd white markings; once a little blue bird egg which she had found lying on top of the sugar in her sugar bowl. Some of the them had been expensive, exquisite work by nameless artists: an ebony pendant carved in the shape of a phoenix, every detail perfectly wrought; a delicate crystal bowl etched with tiny cats which she had found nestled atop her underwear in the drawer; the knife she carried in her coat pocket, found by the bathroom sink. 

There was never a note with the gifts, but she knew who left them; no one else had access to her flat the way he did. They would appear in her flat in odd places or inside her belongings (she had found a scrap of fine hand-tatted lace folded inside her wallet once) and regardless of knowing the giver or whatever the gifts might be, they always surprised and delighted her. She tried not to question the “why” of the gifts, tried to simply relish the attention. In the beginning that had been hard, but lately…

The taxi pulled to the kerb in front of a darkened shop. It was too dark for her to read the sign over the door. Sherlock motioned for her to wait, then hopped out and disappeared down the alleyway next to the building. Five minutes later he reappeared, carrying a bulging canvas tote bag. Molly could see packages wrapped in brown paper threatening to spill out the top. Sherlock quirked a finger at the cabbie, who hopped out and opened the boot. Sherlock deposited the bag in the boot, and then he and the cabbie were back inside and the taxi continued its mysterious journey. 

Molly opened her mouth to ask, but Sherlock put a gloved finger to his lips and she managed to quash her curiosity for a bit longer. Instead she settled back against the seat, stared out at the strange dark streets, and tried to relax and enjoy the presence of the man beside her - the warmth radiating from his body so close, the smell of him (something woodsy and clean), the energy rolling off him in waves. 

It was enough. For now. 

*****

Their destination turned out to be a more industrial section of the city. There were fenced lots with chain-link fences guarding large machinery, warehouses that appeared to be mostly empty. Despite the abandoned atmosphere, the streets were well-kept, as were the exteriors of most of the buildings. 

The taxi stopped to let them out in front of a multi-storied brick warehouse. As Sherlock retrieved the bag from the boot, Molly examined the building. She thought she saw a light flicker in the windows that lined the top story before Sherlock took her arm and guided her to a steel door near one corner. He set down the bag and pulled off one glove, then rang a bell set in the doorframe. He took off his other glove and glanced at her with a small smile. Molly smiled back and took a deep breath. Whatever awaited them inside, she was glad to be included. 

She was not prepared for the person who answered the bell. 

The heavy metal door swung open to reveal an old woman. She was tiny and fragile looking, leaning on a black cane. Long white hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, reaching past her waist. The hem of her black dress nearly touched the floor. Molly could barely see the pale oval of her face in the dim light of the entryway behind her, but she saw the smile directed at Sherlock and felt the warmth of it when it included her. 

She was startled by the strength and depth of the voice that welcomed them.

“Come in, come in! Bring your little bird and come along, I have coffee ready!” 

The accent was decidedly French.

Molly blinked and looked up at Sherlock, who was grinning now and fairly bouncing on his toes with excitement. He bent to pick up the tote bag and waited for her to go ahead of him through the doorway. 

The entryway was nothing more than a dingy grey hallway that led to an elevator towards the back. It was an old fashioned elevator, the kind with the criss-crossed metal grill that closed in place of a proper metal door. Standing next to Sherlock in the small elevator, Molly could smell the soft scent of gardenias coming off the old woman. Despite her seeming frailty and the cane, the woman’s movements were quick and strong. She had no trouble pulling shut the metal grille, or opening it when they reached the top floor of the building. 

The space must have been at least 2,000 square feet, transformed into the old woman’s home. There was a lounge area, furnished with beautiful antiques, a gleaming kitchen with a dining area next to it. A couple of exquisite lacquered Chinese screens hid what was probably a bedroom. There was a partial wall behind that making the single closed off room (a bathroom, perhaps) and behind that a large open space containing what looked like a workshop. The left wall and the wall behind them were solid brick. The remaining two walls were lined with huge windows.

They followed the old woman through the lounge to the kitchen and Sherlock deposited his tote bag on a counter and then, surprisingly, began to unload it, placing the packages inside drawers and cupboards beneath the countertop. He seemed to know exactly where everything was supposed to go. Molly stood at the end of the counter and watched, dumbfounded, eyes round with astonishment. When he was done with the packages, Sherlock turned to her, pulling his scarf from his throat and slipping his coat off. These he tossed across the countertop, then he helped her out of her coat and added it to the pile with his. 

The old woman had continued on to the workshop and was busying herself with something there. Sherlock took Molly’s hand and led her into the workshop area. 

There were easels everywhere, tables and worktops littered with papers and books. The brick wall was hung with pictures, dozens of sketches and paintings, all of them portraits, studies of people young and old. 

Sherlock spoke from behind her.

“Mrs. Balitran, this is my...friend...Molly Hooper.”

As Molly turned, Mrs. Balitran appeared quite near her and suddenly reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, staring at her face. Molly stared back, trying not to flinch in surprise. 

“I am very honored to meet you, Molly Hooper. You may call me Zara.”

“Oh...um, thank you. I’m very pleased to meet you also...Zara.” 

Molly glanced over Zara’s shoulder at Sherlock, who was watching the two women with eyes narrowed. Zara continued to study Molly’s face, then raised her hand and traced Molly’s cheekbone with a finger.

Zara suddenly turned to Sherlock and chuckled. “I think you may have frightened the poor girl, young man. Always the mystery with you, eh?” 

“Oh, no...I’m not…” Molly began. What was going on here? Why did Sherlock bring her to this place, to see this strange woman? What was in all those packages?

Zara went to a stool in front of one of the tables and picked up a sketch book. She rummaged around and found a pencil and then looked at Molly.

“Do you mind if I draw while we talk, dear? It helps to focus my mind. Please, come and sit here with me.” Zara indicated a chair near to where she was sitting.

Molly went to the chair and sat, still burning with questions. 

Zara pointed at Sherlock with her pencil. “You may go and pour us some coffee. And then go and busy yourself elsewhere.” 

As Sherlock returned to the kitchen, Zara touched the point of her pencil briefly to her tongue and then began to make strokes on the paper. Molly sat very still with her hands folded in her lap. As soon as Sherlock brought the coffee, setting Zara’s on the table next to her and handing Molly a steaming cup, Zara waved him away again. 

Sherlock turned and left without a word.

Continuing to draw, Zara began to speak. Though her words were heavily accented, she spoke in perfect English. 

“You are connected, you and Sherlock. I also loved a dark strange man once. He brought me here. Sadly, he died. I did not. He left me this building, and several other properties, and all you see around you.”

Molly was soothed, almost lulled by Zara’s strong, deep voice; she almost missed the question. 

“How did you come to know Sherlock?”

And she found herself spilling the story: her job, how they met, even a slightly edited version of their relationship over the years, as Zara continued to draw, occasionally glancing up at Molly with her dark, birdlike eyes. 

“And what is it you like so much about him?” 

Molly stopped, perplexed. What an odd question. She turned her head, looked over her shoulder, but Sherlock had disappeared. Molly turned back to Zara, then dropped her gaze to her lap. Should she answer? What could she say?

The words tumbled over each other in her head as she stared at her hands. All the obvious answers appeared, of course, but none of them were right. None of them would answer the question she sensed Zara was asking. She had asked herself similar questions over the years: why did she love him. Why did she put up with him.

Why couldn’t she stop.

She closed her eyes and repeated Zara’s exact question in her mind: What was it she _liked_ so much about him?

Slowly nebulous pictures formed in her head, then began to solidify: pictures of herself. Working silently beside Sherlock in the lab. Looking up at him across a body, her gloved hands smeared with blood. Sitting across from him at her flat, discussing the desquamation of the mucous membranes of a poisoning victim. Giggling and shrieking as a flask exploded in the lab and the two of them ducked behind a counter. Standing in her kitchen in the dark, nibbling chips and talking quietly about their work. Scene after scene formed in her head, and in all of them, she was...happy. Content. 

Being herself. 

And the answer was clear. Very softly, she said: “I like who I am when I’m with him. I feel...free.”

She opened her eyes to find that Zara had laid aside her pad and pencil and was sipping her coffee, watching her closely. They sat that way for some minutes, until Zara finally set her cup aside, rose, and moved to stand in front of Molly. Slowly she bent and very gently kissed Molly’s cheek.

Sherlock’s soft voice behind her brought a half-smile to Molly’s lips. 

“Are we finished?”

Molly nodded. Zara smiled and answered: “Yes. We are quite finished.”

*****

Their goodbyes were quick. 

“I’m an old woman. I need my rest,” Zara boomed at them as she shooed them out the door. She didn’t follow them down on the elevator, and Sherlock made sure the metal door to the outside was securely closed and locked.

The taxi was waiting for them. 

Molly paused on the walk and looked back at the building, her eyes going up to the top floor in time to see the lights there flicker out. She took a deep breath of the night air, then followed Sherlock into the taxi. 

Once they were settled and the taxi was moving, she turned to Sherlock and said firmly, “What was that all about?” 

This time he wasn’t going to shush her. 

Sherlock’s eyes shone in the dark like a cat’s and he grinned as he said softly, “Zara needed some company. I wanted you to meet her.”

“That’s not an answer Sherlock. Who is she? What was in those packages? Why did you want me to meet her?”

Sherlock sighed and turned his head to stare out the window at the dark streets they passed through. Finally he turned to Molly.

“Zara’s husband was entangled with some very nasty sorts in France. That’s why they came here. He was very wealthy and at one time owned almost all of the property surrounding Zara’s building. Unfortunately there were others who wanted that property, which is very valuable, and were determined to get it however they could. The husband was murdered. Zara...was at one time a very adept forger of famous artwork. The people who murdered her husband tried to threaten her with exposure to force her to give up the properties. I helped find the murderers and get rid of the threats.”

“And the packages?”

“Zara had a particularly nasty childhood. She has many food allergies, digestive problems, and can only eat certain things. She doesn’t go out, has things delivered mostly. Sometimes I bring her herbs and powders and medicines that she needs.” 

“And me?” Very softly.

Sherlock turned to look out at the night again, silent. But he took Molly’s hand in his, and held it all the way back to her flat.

*****

The events of that night took on a dreamlike quality whenever Molly tried to examine them. But a week later, she returned home from her shift at Bart’s to find another gift waiting for her. 

Above her fireplace mantel hung a portrait done in charcoal, a moody study of Molly’s face and shoulders, capturing everything she’d felt and said with Zara, all the mystery of that entire night. 

All the dark - and all the light in her eyes.


End file.
